Speak
by Fearless-Elegance
Summary: Silence is the hardest argument to refute. Rated for character death, language, imagery and character death. Pretty angsty. You've been warned.


Act 1: Silence

( Act 1 of 3 )

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Another old LJ post. I'm posting it here to light a fire under my ass and maybe I'll finally get around to revising Act 2. Although it's done, I haven't found time to tweak it and adjust the ending. Ah, a testament to my infinite laziness. Warning of character death.

* * *

_~xXx~_

_The pebble my son _

_spray painted gold_

_rests in my palm, a gift,_

_and asks in his clear, high_

_temporary voice:_

_who taught me life is lead?_

_And needs great pain_

_to turn itself to gold?_

_And who taught them?_

_And for what, and whose, reasons?__*****_

~xXx~

(-_-and yesterday he was so alive, and he smiled and he laughed so how dare you tell me he's dead when he was just alive? How dare you tell me that pile of limb and cloth and blood and bone is him when its _not _**because he smelled of honeysuckle and miso and not rotted entrails and fresh blowflies**__-)_

He wants to scream, he does. He wants to fill the Hokage's little office with the loudest, crudest obscenities he can muster because fuck-every old wound that he thought healed, every straight line stitch that crudely held the gashes together is just bursting apart and Iruka just stands there. Calm. Collected.

Through her own tears Tsunade explains what happened, Sakura is stoic and beautiful by her side; the woman-child refusing to shed a tear, refusing to show the weakness that defined her entire childhood, refusing to revert back to the teary-eyed youth-;;_but later on in the solitude of her room, she'll burst open like the first cherry blossoms of spring, wild and uninhibited in her grief and misery until she curls back up into a little bud to face the world with a grim stare and practiced smile that holds all the promise of a __breakdown_;;-and she says nothing. It's selfish but he wishes she would shatter in front of him, he wishes someone other than drunk-off-her-ass-with-grief Tsunade would stumble under the weight. He considers that maybe this is a dream-**much like Yondaime's death was a dream at first, and Obito's sacrifice was a dream at first and Rin's sickness was a fucking nightmare from the start-**-and if he pinches himself he'll wake up and everything will be fine. He won't be covered in Naruto's blood and he won't taste his tears or smell the urine that permeated the orange crotch as the death rattle filled his lungs. He'll wake up on the edge of the lake, Sakura punching Naruto into the water for trying to cop a feel on her ample bosom. Sasuke will be sitting a slight distance away, trying to remain cool and steady but chuckling as the blond calls out for his support. And he, he-

He pinches himself.

(-AND NOTHING CHANGES-)

Tsunade hands Iruka the blood-crusted dog tags, the tattered hitai-ate, and the small photo Naruto kept on his person at all times; the one of he and the sensei right after his graduation. There is a splotch of dried blood on the portion just below Naruto's chest_**/how fucking prophetic/**_and the edges are rounded, softened with age and wear. With trembling hands the teacher collects the items, clutches them to his chest. _do you blame me? is this my fault? _He decides that insanity must be setting in as he silently muses how grief suits Iruka; his face is set, dark eyes bright with unshed tears, his hair hanging loose and free about his shoulders, the hair tie probably forgotten in his hast to appear before Tsunade at her urgent request. Vicariously, he watches the chuunin's world fall apart and can only think that misery makes him beautiful and-

-_and I hope you look half as lovely when I'm dead. _

"It wasn't my fault." Its the only words he can force from his lips.

Iruka says nothing, but then again, he doesn't need too-his silence speaks so loud Kakashi wants to cover his ears and RUN. He looks into pools of bistre eyes set in an austere mein and wishes the accusation in the teachers gaze was enough to kill him because that wouldn't be half bad.

_Yes. Yes, it __**is**__ your fault._

~xXx~

_In the fire, an envelope_

_furls, darkening_

_behind the man_

_who, reading, slowly moves away__*****_

~xXx~

Iruka carried out the funeral arrangements with grim determination, saying nothing at all, yet somehow in charge of everything. He was determined to have the boy rightfully buried as a Hero, but Tsunade went one step further-

He would have the grand internment of a Kage.

From a safe distant ( safe enough to avoid the stares filled with quiet pity, perspicuous acceptance and Iruka's eerie, blank gaze ), he watches mourners stack planks of pyre atop the gold, two-tiered kausta. A fitting way to go, if he had to say so himself. Iruka is not one of the wood bearers; he stands a good distance away, proud and serene as he clutches a black bundle to his chest. He's dressed in black mourning robes, hair pinned high and making inconsolable grief look like an art form. A semi-circle of supporters surround him; in the mix he notices Genma rubbing the chuunin's back in slow _'its-gonna-be-alright-wait-no-bullshit' _circles. Sakura keeps her arm around him as if to steady him, but Kakashi can't tell who needs the support more, him or her. Gaara is easy enough to spot, his pale skin start against the black textile and bleakness of the August evening. His face carries little proof of sorrow, but there is a redness to his eyes that cannot be blamed on insomnia and a limpness to his frame due to a weight far heavier than his characteristic gourd. His siblings stand on either side; silent sentinels for their broken brother. He tries to find Sasuke in the crowd, but the mourners are flooding the open field and soon there are too many people to pinpoint anyone with ease or accuracy without the Sharingan-and he's not about to give reason to anymore stares. So many people. Naruto would be pleased-or mortified to know so many people are here to watch him burn. He's funny like that. _Was_, Kakashi reminds himself; _was funny like that_.

The air carries the heady scent of late blooming flowers, rain-heavy herbs and moist tree bark. Nice smells, he thinks.

Maybe it'll fend off the scent of burning flesh.

He doubts it though, this isn't his first go at death. But, just to be sure he pinches himself, cause you know, you can never be too sure and-

Two little girls dressed in black walk forward, dropping handfuls of white flower petals in their wake. Two pretty little harbingers of death.

They bring out Naruto's body on a slab of gilded wood, wrapped in strips of silk with all the loving care you can possibly give a cadaver that was a once-upon-a-time comrade. How much is that? It's a morbid riddle, he decides, but he doesn't feel like trying to solve it. ::_is this insanity? sure feels like it. or maybe this is sanity and you've been insane all this time._ **isn't that a prettier explanation**?::

[isn't it?]

He spots Sasuke among the body bearers, a corner of the ornate slab balanced carefully atop one shoulder. With the help of Shikamaru, Neji and Lee, he makes the trek down the flower laden path to the kausta. Lee is shaking. Shikamaru and Neji just look forward. At some point, the Uchiha raises a hand to hide his eyes, a blatant attempt to hide his grief and he dares one fucking person to say something about it. Sasuke is tamed, but the bloodthirsty desires that defined his wet dreams and fueled Konoha's nightmares still lurks somewhere deep, buried in some half-healed wound. Kakashi wonders who will save him if he should ever lose his way again-then he remembers the near-fatal injuries he suffered at the Uchiha's hands and thinks _he doesn't give a fuck so long as no one expects it to be him. _The grim procession passes Iruka, and Sakura nearly falls to the ground but the chuunin doesn't allow it. He grips her arm tightly, keeping her upright with sheer strength and will and when they get close enough, reaches out a hand to touch the bandaged corpse, right where the boys eyes would be.

Iruka smiles, briefly. ;;_love/memory_;;

Tsunade gives some type of speech, but he only half listens. Its long and depressing and painful-and its so fucking banal, you've heard all this shit before; only the names change but it all leads to the same sad end and you think it should matter, want it to matter, but it adds up to nothing. Nothing but some ashes and the faint scent of charred skin of a somebody you used to know-

Tsunade removes her sedge hat and places it onto his chest.

It doesn't take long for the burning to commence. Four torches are set. Four unlucky people with a grim task before them.

The Mother; Tsunade lowers her torch to the wood. Naruto's torso ignites.

The Father; Iruka lowers his torch. Naruto's face melts away.

The Sister; Sakura lowers her torch. Naruto's arm crackles.

The Lover; Gaara and Sasuke look at one another. For a moment, Kakashi wonders if things will get ugly. He knows for certain there was a time when that torch would have belonged to Sasuke without a doubt. But that was before his betrayal. Before the bloodlust. Before Gaara.

Up until his death, Naruto's heart lay in Suna. There is a brief moment where the two share eye contact and despite their silence, a wordless truce is declared.

The Lovers; Gaara and Sasuke both lower the torch. Naruto turns to ash.

~xXx~

_He shook the green package._

_Why the gift was taken back_

_before he opened it was not his question_

_He remembered the sound, the feel._

_Was it something broken?_

_Or something to be assembled?_

~xXx~

_The stares are so loud sometimes you wonder if your ears will start bleeding. Pity and sympathy and annoyance and things you can't decipher and don't want to. You sign up for more field missions and Tsunade thinks you're going crazy and your silence doesn't assure her otherwise. Your life has been one giant vanitas-a testament to the Dança da Morte. Add more blood to the portrait. [__**a pound of flesh to get it done right**__]_

Books, scrolls, empty boxes of instant ramen mix, photos, old letters from Suna.

The empty apartment of a dead boy.

Iruka moves about, cleaning, adjusting, packing up the things he can't part with and trashing the things he can't bare to look at again. Later on he'll burn it all, but for now he's content with forming little piles of knick knacks in seperate corners of the room. He's been putting this off for as long he could, always making it as close to the front door before shaking his head and turning away. To have such silence in the house of a boy who ruled with loud promises and boisterous claims seems almost blasphemous. Memories linger in this place, thick and viscous. He considers burning down the entire apartment. Ashes to ashes.

He decides against it.

People have been here before him, leaving flowers on the boys' bed, small gifts, mementos of a better time. Graffiti litters the once plain, cracked walls-endless, trite messages of love and devotion; soliloquies of honor and salvation, promises of reunions in another world. Stupid promises, Iruka thinks. There is no world after death, only the dark, continuous hum of eternal sleep. Sleep. That's something else he hasn't had in some time.

He hasn't spoken in weeks, not since he watched the sunshine hair turn black in the midst of saffron flames. People think him crazy enough; burning down an entire building will only further the belief. His silence has made it impossible for him to continue working at the academy, his (perceived) sanity is the only thing keeping him grounded at the missions' office. Something on the nightstand catches his eye, so out of place in the usual clutter, how come he hadn't noticed it before? He walks toward it, hating the echoing sound of his steps in the dim silence. It's an egg-shaped contraption, the enamel shell colored in gradient tones of beige and yellow. Colors that immediately remind him of sunrise in the desert. Enamel carved prickly pear flowers sprout from the top and it is heavy and solid in his hands. He flicks the gold latch on the side. The shell parts open slowly and a high pitched tune fills the darkness. Its a music box. In the middle, a small red fox carved of rosewood stands on its hind legs, twisting in a never ending circle. It must have been a gift, he thinks. From Suna. From Gaara. He closes it shut, the music ending abruptly with a mechanical whine. He flips it upside down, aware that he is looking for something but not exactly aware of what. There is an inscription on the underside of the gold stand, hardly visible in the silvery glow of moonlight. Still, he manages to make it out:

_Suna is my Country. You are my Home._

"It was a gift. From the Kazekage."

Moonlight casts the exaggerated shadow of a spiky haired intruder. He knows that voice too well to even bother turning around to face him. Besides, the man has no face to actually face. Just a shock of death-white hair and a sleepy-eyed stare. He wants to ask-_why are you here? What business do you have here? You didn't love him like I did. You didn't care to understand him like you did Sasuke. He wasn't Minato so he didn't matter to you. Take your sins and you guilt and your tragedies elsewhere. Here is where my ending lies. _But he can't get the words from his heart to his throat and he can't force his lips to part anyway. So he says nothing and continues organizing everything, placing the music box back in place. Maybe the Kazekage will return for it and do as he pleases ((and he will, crushing it against a sandstone wall and wishing for the dark embrace of shukaku )).

"A birthday gift, if I recall. He loved it, too." Kakashi's voice is flat and mechanical, as if he's discussing battle plans on the field and not sitting on the windowsill at the house of the boy who burned.

Iruka continues his work, his cleansing.

"He was brave." Kakashi's lone eye follows the movements of the the chuunin. "Even in the end, he was brave." It's a lie. They've both seen the death of comrades countless times over. The scenario plays the same. Death is a crafty whore; cheap and willing, that drains the mettle from even the most hardened warrior. Eternity is such a long time-and no one fears it more than the man taking his last breath.

He does nothing to the man with the scarlet wheel in his eye; the vicarious intruder on his grief. He finishes his piles, the things he can't keep, the things he thought he could but won't. It takes three trips, but he carries everything outside to the small courtyard that stands in the middle of the four-story housing complex. Kakashi doesn't help and Iruka doesn't expect him to. This is for him and him alone ( the final goodbye ). Here, the two tidy piles become one huge lump of something that once was-memories that once lived and thrived at the touch of a boy who could have ruled the world. Neither need to ask what will happen next. A few simple hand techniques and the pile is alight, burning, withering, melting away into ash and dust and nothingness. Kakashi is by his side watching, hitai-ah raised up-_sear the memory into your braincells and turn to it on nights you swear you're no longer human. _

Scrolls and battle plans.

_I'll be the best Iruka-sensei, just watch!_

Trinkets and gifts.

_Aww, wow Sensei, you shouldn't have!_

Notes and invitations.

_All you can eat ramen? Hell Yeah!_

The flames remove nearly every trace of evidence that would testify to his existence. He'd watch the boy come so close to manhood, with all his fathers severe beauty and his mothers easy smiles. Scarlet shadows lick at Iruka's frame; shades of vermillion highlight the contours of his angled face; high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Iruka takes a deep breath.

_ And how fitting that it should all end with loud, bold streaks of orange. And how fitting the silence, the deadness of the night, the emptiness of the universe. And how fitting that this time, you are not the one who sheds tears._

* * *

A/N: Anything with the little (*) indicates borrowed material from the amazing Richard Hoffman, auther of "Half the House." I can't remember which poems I borrowed the tidbits from, I'm on the hunt to find them. Hoped you enjoyed.


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